Detention After Dark
I’m chilling on the edge of this shitty motel bed, phone in hand, scrolling through my bookings like it’s just another Friday grind. Then the name hits me like a slap. Mr. Lewis. My old trig teacher from high school, the one who flunked me hard and kept me in detention for bullshit reasons, like forgetting my homework or zoning out during his boring lectures. I remember him staring a little too long when I’d bend over to pick up a pencil, but back then I chalked it up to him being a creep. No way this is the same guy booking me for an hour. I almost hit cancel, finger hovering over the button, but rent’s screaming at me and three hundred bucks is three hundred bucks. I light a smoke to calm my nerves, inhale deep. The room stinks of fake pine air freshener battling old cum stains and regret. Neon from the motel sign outside flickers red through the thin curtains, painting the carpet in bloody stripes. I crack the window, let in some city noise. Horns, distant sirens. Anything to drown out my head.
Knock comes sharp. I stub the cig, stand up, adjust my bulge in these tight jeans. Open the door. There he is, older than I remember, salt-and-pepper hair thinning at the top, deeper lines around his eyes, but that same calm, teacher voice that used to make my palms sweat. “You remember me, Jax?” he says, stepping in without waiting for an invite.
“Yeah,” I mutter, closing the door behind him. “I remember red F’s on every test, your ruler smacking the desk when I zoned out, and those after-class sessions where you’d lecture me about potential while I stared at the clock.”
He nods, eyes dropping quick to my ink. Then to my tight tee clinging to my chest, nipples hard from the AC, and lower to the way my jeans hug my dick. We both act like this is some casual reunion, not him paying to fuck his former student. He asks the rate straight up. I tell him three hundred cash, upfront. He pulls crisp bills from his wallet, no haggling, no bullshit. My gut twists hard. This ain’t about catching up on algebra.
He sits on the sagging bed, the springs creaking under his weight like they’re judging him. Lights a cigarette with fingers that shake bad, ash dropping onto his khaki pants before he even takes a drag. Starts the small-talk crap, voice steady but eyes darting. “Life treating you okay since high school? You always had a brain for numbers, Jax. Just wouldn’t use it. Too distracted.”
I lean against the dresser, arms crossed, watching the cherry of his smoke glow orange in the dim light. “Brain’s paying the rent now. Found a different kind of hustle. Sucking dick beats solving for x.”
He laughs, but it dies fast, like a cough. Admits he’s been following my OnlyFans for months, lurking on previews, jerking off in the dark. Recognized the dragon tat curling around my hip from a teaser clip where I was half-naked, ass up. “Always figured you’d land on your feet,” he says, voice dropping low. “Or your knees.”
I snort, step closer, close enough to smell his cheap aftershave mixed with nerves. “You want a live demo, teach? Show you what I learned outside your classroom?”
His face flushes red under the lamp, but he don’t back down, don’t look away. Says he’s never paid for this before, never even thought about it until his wife bailed two years ago, packed her shit and left him with an empty bed and silence that echoes. Calls it “correctional loneliness,” like he’s in some self-imposed prison for bad husbands. Cute word for blue balls. He don’t want me to spank him or play out some twisted teacher-student fantasy. Though I bet that’s crossed his mind. Nah, he says he just wants to touch, to learn how it feels when it’s real, no strings, no judgment. But I see it in his eyes, the hunger. He wants to be inside the kid he used to scold, to rewrite those old detentions.
I peel my shirt off slow, letting it drop to the floor. My nipple rings catch the lamp light, glinting silver. His breath hitches audible, chest rising faster. “You sure you know what three bills buys you?” I ask, voice low, testing him.
“I know exactly,” he replies, but his voice cracks on the last word, betraying him.
I push him back onto the bed, hands on his shoulders. The mattress groans under us. Unzip his khakis slow, pull them down with his boxers. His cock jumps out free, thick and curved up, already hard and leaking pre-cum at the tip. Bigger than I pictured back in high school, veiny and flushed. I wrap my fist around the base, feel the heat pulsing through my palm, the way it throbs like a heartbeat. He apologizes right away, “Sorry, I’m not used to this,” like I need his permission. I tell him to shut up. He don’t, keeps mumbling excuses.
Stroke him slow, up and down, twisting my wrist at the head. Pre-cum beads up thick, runs warm and sticky over my knuckles. I lick it off my fingers, taste the salt mixed with his nerves, bitter and raw. Lean down, take the head in my mouth, lips stretching around it. Tongue flicks the slit, circles the ridge slow, teasing. He groans deep in his throat, hips twitching up involuntary. Fingers dig into my scalp, pulling my hair just enough to sting good. I swallow deeper, relax my throat, gag a little on purpose to let him hear the wet choke, the slurps. Spit drips down his shaft, pools at the base in his graying pubes. His balls hang heavy, drawn up tight, skin soft and wrinkled under my palm. I roll them gentle, tug a bit, feel them tighten more. Then slide a lubed finger into his ass, pushing past the tight ring. He gasps sharp, clenches hard around my knuckle like he’s fighting it, then pushes back greedy, wanting more. Found the spot. His prostate swells under my fingertip. His dick leaks like a faucet now, pre-cum flooding my tongue, salty and thick, making me swallow around him.
I pull off slow, spit shining on my chin, strings of it connecting my lips to his cockhead. Wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, taste him lingering. Strip the rest of my clothes. Jeans off, no underwear, my own dick hard and bouncing free, pierced at the tip. My hole’s already slick, prepped in the bathroom mirror earlier with two fingers and cherry lube until I was loose and dripping, ready for whatever. I climb on top, knees straddling his hips, line him up with my entrance, the head nudging my rim. Sink down slow, inch by inch. Burns good, that stretch pulling me wide open, the first pop past the ring making me hiss through my teeth. He fills me to the root, thick and deep, balls pressed flush against my ass, his pubic hair scratching my skin rough. I pause there, let my body adjust, feel every vein drag inside me as I shift. He grabs my hips hard, thumbs digging bruises into the ink on my sides. I clench down tight, milk him, feel him twitch and throb deep inside. Wet sounds fill the room. Skin slapping skin, my ass slurping around his shaft, lube and pre-cum squishing out with every lift and drop, dripping down his balls.
I ride him slow at first, grinding in circles, letting him feel how tight I can get, how I control the pace. His breathing goes ragged, chest heaving under his half-open shirt, buttons straining. I lean forward, my nipple rings brushing his chest hair, bite his collarbone just to hear him moan louder, mark him with teeth. Pick up speed gradual, slamming down harder now, my prostate lighting up like fireworks with every hit, sparks shooting up my spine. His cock swells inside me, stretching me more, the head rubbing that spot over and over until my thighs shake, sweat dripping down my back, pooling at the base of my spine.
He says my name then, mid-thrust. “Jaxon.” Full name, not the handle I use now. I freeze, buried to the hilt on him. Nobody calls me that. Not since graduation, not since I left that life behind. My chest tightens like a fist, old memories flashing. Him yelling at me in class, me hating him but kinda wanting his approval. But my body don’t stop, won’t let it. I slam down harder, chasing the burn, the build-up. He swells bigger inside, veins pulsing, then unloads without warning. Hot spurts deep in my guts, pulse after pulse, cum flooding me warm and thick, overflowing, dripping out around his shaft, running down my thighs and soaking the cheap sheets. I jerk myself fast, fist slick with lube and his pre-cum, stroke rough until I shoot across his shirt in thick ropes, splattering the cotton and his skin below. Mark him good, watch it drip.
We breathe hard, chests heaving, air thick with the smell of sweat and sex. Sweat cools on my skin, raising goosebumps. I climb off slow, careful, my hole sore and leaking his load, a warm trickle down my leg. Hand him a towel from the nightstand. He wipes his belly slow, stares at the mess like it’s evidence in a crime scene, his face a mix of shame and satisfaction. Clock on the wall ticks over. The hour’s up. He finds his voice finally, sitting up. “You were never stupid, Jaxon. Just needed someone to believe in you.”
I laugh, bitter and short, pulling on my jeans. “Little late for that pep talk, teach. But you believe in me now, huh? Felt it when you came inside me, raw and deep.”
He dresses slow, buttons his shirt over the cum stains, zips up with shaky hands. Counts the cash again even though it’s exact, like he’s stalling. Tucks an extra twenty in my palm, fingers brushing mine too long. “Keep it between us.”
I pocket the bill, smirk. Door clicks shut behind him. I sit back on the bed, legs still shaky from the ride, feel his load shift inside me, a reminder that’ll ache tomorrow. Open my phone, fingers sticky with lube and cum. Room smells like raw sex and smoke now, overpowering the pine. I count the bills one more time. Three hundreds plus the twenty. Feels heavier than it should, like it’s weighted with all that history.
I wipe myself rough with the towel, toss it in the corner where it lands with a wet slap. My hole throbs, the good kind of sore that’ll make me walk funny later. Stand up, pull on my jeans fully, no underwear, let the cum dry crusty on my skin as a fucked-up souvenir. Neon still flickers outside, casting shadows that dance on the walls. I light another smoke, inhale deep, stare at the water-stained ceiling. Old memories creep in uninvited. Him leaning over my desk in class, hot breath on my neck while pretending to check my work, his hand brushing my arm accidental-on-purpose. Always knew he wanted it back then, the tension thick as chalk dust. Just never thought he’d pay for it, never thought I’d be the one taking his cash and his load.
Phone buzzes on the bed. New booking alert. I ignore it, let it vibrate itself silent. Finish typing the post instead, thumbs flying.
Very hot. Old teacher, once a symbol of master, brought down to be mastered from the bottom. Nice buildup and ramp. Scorch
I had six teachers and one Vice-pricipal who I'd have climbed all over!❤️💯‼️😜🔥😈🥵